


Exertion

by LostGirl



Series: Recovery!Verse [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, D/s undertones, Frottage, Get Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Post-Canon, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-30
Updated: 2006-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-16 06:03:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2258532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostGirl/pseuds/LostGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a long recovery Post-Not Fade Away, Wesley's ready to get on with his life again, but what role in it will Rupert Giles play?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All things BtVS and AtS belong to Joss Whedon and various corporate entities. I am neither.
> 
> Big, huge thanks to [](http://mireille719.livejournal.com/profile)[**mireille719**](http://mireille719.livejournal.com/) for the wonderful beta magic! All mistakes are my own.

"Another." Rupert's voice was loud in the quiet of the weight room, accompanied only by Wesley's harsh breathing.  Wesley responded to that voice without a thought, pushing himself just a little harder, a little farther.  One more rep, another rep, another, despite the way his arms felt as if they might give out.  Rupert asked, and Wesley did it.

Wesley needed the physical therapy after the . . . incident with Vail, though it was almost two years ago.  It was thanks to Rupert that Wesley had accomplished so much in the nine months since he'd awoken, confused and grieving, in a hospital bed in London, since he'd learned that most of his friends were dead, but the rest were still fighting.

"Another," Rupert said, softly now, close to Wesley's ear as Wesley pressed himself on.  Another rep, lifting the weights up, pausing before letting them descend again.  His arms shook with the effort.  "Very good.  Keep it up, Wesley.  Not much further, now."

Wesley let out a barely controlled breath between his teeth, nodding to Rupert to show he'd heard.  Too much of him was focused on the weights in his hand to answer verbally.  He couldn't remember how many he'd done, but Rupert kept count, kept him constantly pushing his boundaries, going just a little farther than he thought he could.

Wesley didn't know what motivated Rupert's drive to see him healthy again, whole again, but Rupert had been there through every phase of his recovery.  His presence had been one of the things that kept Wesley going.  At first it had been all about not failing in front of the man, not letting Rupert see him stumble.  And Rupert had acted the part.  He'd never been discouraging, but Wesley had always suspected he saw a subtle cynical twist of the lips, an eyebrow raised in doubt.

Wesley hadn't questioned Rupert's clear disbelief that he could do it, could recover.  He couldn't question it; he was used to disbelief and disappointment and to succeed he'd needed a spur.  Rupert had been there when Wesley's own father had visited only once and had left in despair.

Gradually, Rupert's half-hidden scorn had turned into encouragement, into a helping hand when Wesley needed it and a look of pride when Wesley managed a new goal before it was expected of him.

And that was the secret.  It wasn't the whip-crack voice, or even the softer, encouraging tones, though both brought a response.  It wasn't Rupert's insistence, or his cajoling, though both kept Wesley motivated.  It wasn't Wesley's knowledge of Rupert's years spent training Slayers, though that helped when Wesley's worries began to overwhelm him.  It was that flash of pride, that hint of a smile, that nod acknowledging that Wesley had accomplished something.  Those were the things that Wesley worked for, and he was afraid he was becoming far too accustomed to them.

"Keep going.  You can.  Just a little farther, Wesley.  Don't give up now."

Wesley's muscles ached and sweat had long ago soaked his hair and his shirt.  It ran down his face in distracting rivulets and he tasted salt every time he bit his lip and forced himself to keep going.  He lifted the bar up, but his arms felt like rubber, and he was certain he couldn't keep going.  He could feel them giving out, and fear flared in his stomach.  He was going to drop it, going to hurt himself.

Rupert's hands closed over the bar, taking much of the weight from Wesley and helping him guide it to rest.  Wesley let his arms drop down to his sides, closing his eyes for a moment to push away the fear.  It was with him far too often these days.  He'd nearly died, spent fifteen months in a coma from which normal medicine could not have woken him.  He didn't fear dying, but he did fear returning to that state: alive, but not present.

"You did well today."  Rupert's voice intruded on his thoughts, and Wesley opened his eyes to find Rupert offering him a towel.

Wesley nodded, dragging in a deep breath as he sat up and took the towel.  "I'll take your word for it."  He voice was always rough after a session, his throat too dry to compensate for damage done even so long ago.  Wesley wiped his face and blinked the sweat out of his eyes.

"You've made amazing progress, Wesley." Rupert's voice held a hesitance that made Wesley look up, meet his gaze.  There was worry there, though Wesley couldn't imagine why.  "I'm going to clear you to return to work, though not field work just yet."

Wesley shoved aside the spike of fear that ripped through him, calming himself.  "So, I'll be sitting in an office doing translation for hours on end, and I’m only now ready for that?"  The question wasn't as bitter as it could have been.  Wesley found he was rather relieved not to be thrust into the field right off the bat, but he couldn't let that show, couldn't allow himself to give in to the weakness.

The fact that he was thankful to Rupert for insisting on office duty before field work only dredged up further nervousness.  That support . . . it wouldn't be there forever.  Once he was himself again--and he would be, between the physical therapy and the healing magics Rupert was teaching him--the support would fade, and he would have to stand on his own again.

That thought sent a shiver of apprehension through Wesley, which only brought forth the anger he'd been avoiding.  What the hell was wrong with him?

"You need to re-acclimate yourself, Wes.  You've been gone for a long time, and in that time everything a Watcher does and is has changed."  Rupert sat on the bench beside him, and Wesley felt his body sway toward him a little, as if pulled in by Rupert's presence.

He straightened, only then realizing he'd been hunched over.  The small movement tensed tired muscles, muscles just becoming used to exertion again.  Another reminder of how far he still had to go.

"I know," he said on a sigh.  Standing, tossing the towel over the weight bar, Wesley tried not to feel the burn in his legs from more tired muscles.  "But at the moment what I need is a hot shower and a cup of tea."

Rupert smiled at that, and Wesley had to turn away, had to force his rubbery legs to carry him toward the locker room and away from things he had to make himself stop wanting.

\-----

Rupert was precisely on time, a habit of which Wesley quite approved, even if he didn't seem to be able to master it recently.  Everything still took longer than he expected it to.  At least, Wesley told himself, the simple act of answering the door didn't leave him puffing for breath any longer.

Wesley opened the door and gave a weak smile, stepping aside so that Rupert could enter.  Rupert entered without a word, taking his bag of supplies into the living room.  Over the last months all of this had become routine and, with neither of them having any fondness for small talk, the setup was usually accomplished in relative quiet.

Rupert asked how Wesley's first day back to work had been.  Wesley assured him that he'd been fine, though there were adjustments to make.  Still, he was glad to be doing something again.

"Tea?"  Wesley asked as Rupert laid out a mat painted with the circle and various healing patterns.  After a few tries, it had become obvious that it was impractical to clean Wesley's living room floor after each session.

"Hmm?  Yes, please, if it's no trouble."

Wesley smiled at the distracted answer as he made his way into the kitchen.  They'd repeated that same exchange dozens of times, and Wesley found it comforting.  Though he wasn't exactly anxious about the magic itself, working with Rupert always left him feeling . . . raw.  It wasn't the same as with others.  When he'd first woken, he'd needed more power behind the spells than Rupert could easily provide, and so Wesley had worked with Willow quite a few times.  After those sessions he'd always felt calm and relaxed.  They'd done their job, and Wesley had been healing faster than anyone had expected. 

He'd expected to feel the same after he worked with Rupert, but it was different.  That first session had left him exhausted, which wasn't abnormal, but he'd also been restless, hyperaware of everything around them.  He would have mentioned it, had planned to mention it if it happened again, but there was one 'side effect' he wasn't willing to tell Rupert about.  Their healing sessions also left him . . . aroused, which was likely where the restlessness came in as well, possibly even the hyper-sensitivity.  Leaving Wesley rather stuck.

The sessions themselves were . . . Well, Wesley had no problem with them.  The healing helped noticeably, kept him from constantly sore muscles and stiff joints while he recovered, as well as aiding some of the less easily addressed systems of his body.  He'd been told that such things sometimes lagged behind, unable to adjust to the magic-enhanced progress of the rest of him.

The problem was that neither Willow nor Rupert had ever worked with someone who needed as much as Wesley did.  They'd been putting much of this new practice to work on Slayers who were gravely injured.  There it was just a matter of holding them stable until their natural regeneration began to take place, and then helping along that process.

The few humans they'd worked with, for more than the basics of magical healing which were well known and well used, hadn't been as damaged as Wesley had been.  It had taken Willow and Rupert quite a long time just to figure out how to draw him from the coma at all.

The whistle of the kettle brought Wesley back to the present.  Shaking his head at himself, he poured a cup of tea for Rupert and one for himself, taking them out to the living room and setting them carefully on the coffee table.

"Ready when you are," Rupert said, nodding his thanks for the tea.  Wesley took a deep breath and let it out slowly, moving to his seat on the mat.  Both he and Rupert went through the relaxation process in silence.  That, alone, helped, since Wesley often found himself tense in Rupert's presence, a fact for which he castigated himself on a regular basis.

"Open up when you're ready," Rupert said softly and Wesley found himself letting down his walls without a thought, eagerly.

The energy that flowed into him was distinctively Rupert.  Willow's energy had been brighter, quicker, sharper, but Rupert's was more gentle, warmer, somehow more _textured_ and deeper.

Wesley lost himself for a time.  After the sessions, Wesley could never really work out in his head what he and Rupert had done.  It was a jumble of sensations and directions that made no since in the linear, Euclidean world outside.  Inside was another story, somehow, and Wesley knew from experience that if he went through the process again, even by himself, he'd know what to do.

When Wesley opened his eyes, it was to find Rupert watching him with a questioning look and a small smile.  "Better?"

"Much," Wesley croaked, reaching for the tea he'd set out earlier.  He did feel better, physically, but the restlessness was flaring inside him, urging him to move, to do something.  After a few sips of tea he met Rupert's eyes again, forcing himself to ignore the frisson of arousal that sparked through him.  "This is the last technique?"

"That we've managed to develop so far," Rupert answered with a small nod, reaching for his own tea.  "I'll teach you anything else as we work it out."  Rupert paused then, glancing down at his cup for a long moment before meeting Wesley's gaze again.  "You'll be able to do this on your own, now.  You've no more need of me for this."

"Oh."  Wesley nodded, but said nothing, worried about what might tumble out if he opened his mouth just then.  Finally, after another long drink of his tea, he forced himself to speak.  "Of course.  I'm fairly sure I can work through all the techniques on my own."

Wesley was surprised to find that it wasn't fear that had gripped him.  He knew he could do this part by himself; he simply didn't want to.  Even if it meant sitting there, fidgety and horny and awkward, Wesley enjoyed the time, enjoyed working with Rupert.

"I'll leave the mat and all with you.  Call me if you need any help," Rupert reached out and laid a hand on Wesley's shoulder.  Even that simple, brief, contact had Wesley's cock beginning to harden.

"I will."  Wesley forced a smile, swallowing hard and wishing he hadn't already finished his tea.  "Thank you," he finally managed, though he couldn't look Rupert in the eye as he said it.  Part of him was still so very annoyed at needing the help, and it fought with the part of him that rather enjoyed Rupert's concern.

\-----

Wesley tossed his bag into a locker and made his way out into the training room.  It wouldn't have been incorrect to say that he was a bundle of nerves, but Wesley did his best not to let it show.

He'd been back at work for three days, and the last two had only brought further frustration.  His legs got stiff if he didn't get up from his desk to walk around a little every hour, which he consistently forgot to do.  His shoulder had been left aching by the kickback of a simple crossbow--which was why he still hadn't attempted to fire a gun.  He found it hard to look at the now-human Spike, who seemed to mostly avoid him anyway, which also hurt.  More than once he'd had to ask Andrew's help in retrieving texts, and that was not an experience he would ever have relished.  Andrew was just so damned eager to help and he always had 'encouraging' words.

Wesley shuddered at the memory, looking forward to today's session more than he had in weeks.  He needed this, needed to move and work and feel without having to think.  He needed the exertion and the way it pushed aside almost all thoughts.  There were other factors to his enthusiasm, but Wesley refused to consider them.  He'd put them aside, and now all that mattered was the workout, exercise.

Rupert was waiting for him, as always.  He stood over by the treadmill, which Wesley despised, as it left his mind free to roam.  Apparently noting his boredom, Rupert had taken to discussing current Watcher events with Wesley as he walked.  That would have been pleasant enough on any other day, but Wesley didn't want to think about it just then.

Wesley couldn't help the smile that formed when Rupert noticed his arrival.  It was automatic and genuine and therefore hard to stifle.  Rupert smiled back at him, nodding toward the treadmill.  "Only a short distance today."

Straight to business, that was Rupert.  Wesley snorted and made for the treadmill, a bit relieved that he wouldn't be spending the whole session on the treadmill.  There would still be the possibility of something more tiring.  If it was tiring enough, Wesley might even sleep well tonight.

The walk served as a useful warm up, but Wesley was relieved when they moved on to more active pursuits.  He was surprised that Rupert directed him to the heavy bag.  Despite the surprise, Wesley immediately went to wrap his hands, his eyes lingering on the bag hanging nearby.  So far they had been working on getting Wesley's muscles back in working order.  While he'd known that he'd have to re-train his body for fighting, he hadn't expected it to be so soon.

"You're ready for this," Rupert said as he passed Wesley and took hold of the bag.  "Give it your all."  Wesley nodded, stepping up to the bag before his mind had even really processed the words.  He raised his fists, did his best to center himself, and began.

At first, Wesley felt as if he were too slow, his body refusing to move the exact way he wanted it to.

"Hit harder."  Rupert's voice was sharp, resounding in Wesley's ears.

Wesley complied, pushing himself, slamming his fists into the bag with a force that echoed through his shoulder and down through the rest of his body.  He felt each hit, each stretch of muscle, each pull of tendon.

"Good.  More."  Rupert's voice became a background drone, always pushing.

Wesley put his whole body into it.  His breathing grew ragged, even as he sought to control it, to push it in and out steadily.  Still he pressed on, blinking away the sweat he could feel trickling over his skin.

"Harder."  Rupert's voice was strained and, though the word itself was innocent enough, Wesley's brain twisted it in delightful ways.  Wesley gasped, his eyes flicking to Rupert, who was watching him around the bag.

For a moment their eyes met and Wesley thought he saw the same heat in Rupert's eyes that he was sure resided in his own.  Then Rupert blinked, nodded toward the bag, and it was gone, if it had ever actually been there.  "Harder," Rupert said again, but his tone was different, simpler, and Wesley turned his mind back to the heavy bag.

He put all of himself into it.  Let the confusion and frustration and fear push him forward, as surely as Rupert's voice drove him on.  He struck again and again, losing himself and finally, finally, finding that space in which he wasn't thinking.

"That's enough."  Rupert's voice was over loud, as if he'd said it before and Wesley hadn't heard.  Wesley pulled up short, blinking at Rupert.  He was breathing hard, his whole body moving with each pant, and his taped knuckles ached.  He was covered in sweat, and his legs were threatening to dump him on his arse.

Moving to sit on the weight bench, Wesley accepted the water Rupert handed to him, taking a long gulp and trying to ignore the other man's proximity.  Rupert sat next to him.

"Wesley, are you all right?"

Wesley opened his mouth, thought better of it, and then nodded tiredly.  "Frustrated, but fine," he finally said, giving Rupert what he hoped was a reassuring smile.  "Getting back to work . . ." He let it trail off, looking back to his water bottle and using it to avoid finishing the lie.

Work was only one of his problems.  He knew he was blaming it for more frustration than it had caused, but his alternatives weren't worth thinking about.

Rupert nodded, standing and offering Wesley a towel.  "You did well today.  Your endurance is progressing quite quickly.  Perhaps, for our next session, we'll work on something a bit more difficult."

Wesley, thoroughly distracted by the mischievous glint in Rupert's eyes, raised an eyebrow.  "More difficult?  Am I going to be able to walk out of here, or will I need to be carried?"

There it was again.  A flash of heat in Rupert's eyes, so brief Wesley knew he had to be imagining it.  "You'll be able to leave under your own power.  I wouldn't be doing my job very well if I pushed you that far, now would I?"

Wesley felt himself responding to Rupert's smile, the dry tone of his voice.  It seemed beyond him not to smile back.  He opened his mouth to reply with some joke or another, but what came out was, "This isn't your job, Rupert."  His tone was low, soft, as if they were sharing a secret.  Unfortunately, Wesley's brain had forgotten to let him in on it.

"No," Rupert said, his tone warm and deep, his eyes never leaving Wesley's.  "It's not."  They stared at one another a moment longer, and Wesley was speechless, breathless.  He wanted to reach out, wanted to bridge the distance between Rupert and himself somehow.

There was suddenly a tension in the air that felt almost electric against Wesley's skin, but something else as well.  It was cool and frenetic and familiar.  Wesley felt as if his edges were blurred, as if he _could_ just reach out and touch Rupert, could . . . then a new thing skimmed along the edge of Wesley's awareness, something gentle and warm and _textured_.  And then it was gone.

Rupert raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing.  Wesley swallowed hard and stood, ignoring the ache of his legs.  "I, uh, I need to go shower."

"Of course," Rupert nodded, a slightly bemused expression on his face.  Wesley wanted to say more, say something, but instead just turned and walked away.

\-----

Rupert waited until Wesley was out of sight before he slumped onto the weight bench, trying to clear his head.  There had been a moment there when he'd thought . . . Laying his head in his hands, Rupert tried to separate what he wanted to see from what he was seeing, tried to decide how much of it was real and how much was to be ignored.

When he and the Slayers had arrived in LA, only to find that it was too late, he'd sworn he'd do all he could to make it right.  He'd used Council resources to clean up the remains of the battle, and he'd gathered the survivors and taken care of whatever medical needs they'd had.  Wesley and Spike needed the most care.  Gunn had, sadly, already been gone.  Illyria had disappeared and no one had spoken to her since, though there were occasional sightings.  Angel had been near dust, but a few infusions of Slayer's blood had brought him back.

Spike, however, had nearly died from his injuries.  The shock to his system when he'd become human had been bad enough, but when combined with the injuries he'd already sustained, the experience left him bed-ridden for weeks.  Wesley, though . . .

The group of Slayers Rupert sent to Vail's home had returned carrying him on a stretcher, a sheet spread over his body as if he were a corpse.  He would have been, had Willow not picked up his hand to say her goodbyes and sensed that tiny spark of life still inside him.

It almost hadn't been enough.  When they'd finally been able to transport him to London . . . Rupert had traveled with him, as had Willow, just in case one or both of them was needed to re-stabilize him.  Wesley had looked so young to him, then, while unconscious.  Despite the scar running along his throat, despite the stubble likely designed to hide said scar, even despite the lines that would form on his face when Wesley 'dreamed' as a side effect of the magic.  He had been so pale, looked so small, and Rupert had sworn again that he'd do everything in his power to make this right, to make up for not being there when they'd needed him.

Angel had remained in LA, and Spike had wanted to stay with him.  Angel had refused.  Spike probably still would have stayed, had his injuries allowed.  Once they were in London, Spike had settled there because of Wesley, to see that Rupert kept his promise and did everything he could to help him.  Rupert suspected that Spike and Angel's 'private discussion' just before they'd left LA had had something to do with that.  Spike had been extremely subdued for weeks after.

Helping Wesley had taken far longer to accomplish than Rupert had wanted, though.  Willow and he had worked nonstop for months before either of them let anything else intervene.  Other responsibilities had caught up eventually, and they'd had to slow their efforts.  Rebuilding the Council had taken time and attention, but Rupert had often found himself thinking of Wesley, of what they could try next.  Then, they'd managed it; they'd brought consciousness back to Wesley's wounded body.  Rupert still remembered the knot in his stomach and the pure joy he'd felt when Wesley opened his blurred eyes and looked around.

Of course, then Wesley had screamed, convinced he was still there, still dying on Vail's floor.  He'd babbled about lies and taking things too far, and it had been nearly an hour before they could calm him and convince him that he was safe.  Rupert still hadn't stopped his efforts, and promised himself he wouldn't until Wesley was healthy again.  Even Buffy had long since forgiven him for not telling her, for not taking action, but Rupert hadn't forgiven himself.  He couldn't until the last survivor was whole again.

Now, Wesley was up and about, getting better every day, and Rupert had to admit that guilt had played less and less of a role in his interest in returning Wesley to health.  Of course, admitting it meant he now had to find a way to deal with it.

Scrubbing his hands over his face, Rupert exhaled slowly and raised his head to look around the training room, but no solution presented itself and he finally gave up.  He listened for a moment and, since he didn't hear the water in the locker room running, stood to go have his own shower.  Wesley always left directly after his shower, and Rupert was both thankful and disappointed to find the locker room empty.

 _Dear Lord, I've buggered this up grand._   After turning on the water, Rupert stripped off his sweats and stood, gratefully, under the hot spray.  He was tense and weary and ready to go home, but his mind kept worrying at questions that were probably better off ignored.

Had he truly felt what he thought he had: Wesley's power, reaching out to him in the training room, not so long ago?  He knew how it felt, after their work together.  Wesley's power was like electricity, but cool and clean.  It sparked over his skin and under it and . . .

Rupert groaned at the thought of it, at the memories conjured by those thoughts.  He closed his eyes and let it all wash over him.  The slight smell of ozone when Wesley opened himself, the rush of tingling energy that poured out when they worked together, twining around Rupert's own and following every move that Rupert made, learning with something akin to hunger for the knowledge.

Another groan pushed its way from Rupert's lips, his cock hardening.  Swallowing hard, Rupert tried to pull himself away from those thoughts.  He opened his eyes and went about washing the sweat out of his hair, but the water felt too good against his skin, and he imagined he could almost still feel Wesley's power, Wesley's presence.

"Damn it," Rupert growled under his breath.  Giving in to temptation, Rupert leaned one hand against the wall and let the other slide down his body.  He closed his eyes, letting out a hissing breath as he slipped his fingers around the base of his cock and stroked to the head, pushing his foreskin forward and then back.

He hung his head, his breathing going ragged as his mind threw up both memory and imagining.  Wesley's grin when he'd first really believed he _would_ be healthy again.  Wesley's face, a mask of concentration as he struggled with some new goal.  Wesley, shirtless and dripping sweat, his teeth sunk into his lower lip, his body tight and tense as he strained against the weights.

Rupert tightened his grip, fisting himself with increasing speed.  His breath was coming in quick pants, now, his body tightening with a new tension, much more pleasant than the last.

Wesley's power sliding around his own, just like a touch, a caress that sent jolts of pleasure straight to Rupert's cock.  Wesley pinned against the wall, his breathing rough as they thrust against one another.  He wanted that, Rupert admitted, letting himself enjoy the fantasy, letting himself imagine the slick glide of Wesley's cock beside his own.

Rupert's hips were moving, jerking and thrusting his shaft into his hand.  He tried to keep himself quiet, but a groan slipped from his lips, echoing off the shower tiling and momentarily filling the small room before dying away.  It was replaced by Rupert's ragged panting as he pictured Wesley in his bed, lying naked and exhausted, those too-blue eyes opening lazily.

With another choked groan, Rupert came, throwing his head back, his body moving under the spray of hot water.

\-----

Wesley stared, unable to look away from Rupert.  Rupert.  Naked.  With water sliding down his skin.  Wesley had only come back to get his umbrella, but . . . the sounds had drawn him in and now, now he felt unable to move at all.  Swallowing hard, Wesley stood frozen.  Rupert faced away from him and Wesley's eyes skimmed along Rupert's back, taking in the subtle pull and give of muscle before sliding lower.  Wesley's breathing turned slightly ragged, his cock twitching and beginning to harden.

_Oh, God.  I should leave.  This isn't . . . I should . . . leave._

Rupert's hips were moving; his head hung low between his shoulders.  Wesley could imagine the rest, only too well, in fact.  He mind conjured pictures of Rupert's hand tight around his cock, of the water running along Rupert's chest and down over his stomach.

Wesley's cock was hard in his trousers, almost painfully so.  The urge to touch himself, to move to the same rhythm that Rupert had set up, was almost overwhelming.  What held him still was the thought of Rupert catching him.  Turning to find Wesley there might not be too bad.  Wesley had his umbrella to use as an excuse, but if Rupert turned and found Wesley touching himself--perversely, Wesley's cock jumped at the thought.

A loud groan sounded, pulling Wesley's mind fully back to the sight before him.  Rupert tossed his head back, his body shuddering.  Wesley gasped, but the sound was thankfully cloaked by another loud groan as Rupert came.

Wesley swallowed hard, taking a single step back.  Rupert leaned against the wall with one hand, his whole body slumping a bit, as if he no longer possessed the strength to hold himself up.  Wesley found his eyes wandering, even though he knew he should leave.  Now.

Wesley took a step back, then another, desperately ignoring his erection.  He still couldn't take his eyes off of Rupert as Rupert stood, sighing deeply.  Considering what he'd just done, Wesley felt his forehead wrinkle at the look of dejection on Rupert's face.

Wesley turned and walked quietly away.  It wasn't what he wanted to do, but he was getting good at ignoring those urges.  It was hard, though, so hard not to picture himself in there as well, to--

 _Stop it!_   He told himself, letting his mental voice turn mocking.  _As if Rupert would have reacted with anything but disgust.  You_ watched _him masturbate.  You're pathetic._

Wesley stepped outside, closing the door gently behind him and slumped as he realized he'd actually forgotten to retrieve the umbrella he'd gone back for in the first place.  Between going back inside and walking home in the rain, it was an easy decision.

Shaking his head at himself, Wesley set off, pulling the collar of his jacket up to keep the rain from rolling down his neck.

A few blocks from the Council's gym, the rain began to fall more heavily.  Wesley kept walking, though.  There were very few things that could have made him turn around and go back there.  He kept his head down, gritted his teeth against the breeze and soldiered on.

The only blessing was that the rain and the chill quickly rid him of his erection, which made the walk home endurable, if still far from pleasant.  He was, for once, relieved to reach the door of his small flat.  His fingers, barely warmer than the rest of him, fumbled with the keys and when, finally, he was inside, Wesley tossed them onto the table by the door and quickly shed his wet clothing.

His shower was hot, but short because he knew where his mind would lead him if he lingered.  Dressed once more in dry clothing, Wesley looked around his small kitchen and decided to skip the tea and move straight to the single malt.  Sighing as he looked at the bottle, he grabbed a random glass from the cabinet and poured a generous measure.  He went to his bedroom, bypassing the living room entirely.

One step inside the room and Wesley stopped, his eyes skimming over the walls, which were bare, and the bed, which was neatly made and all too empty.  Shaking his head at himself, he sank down onto it, setting his glass on the nightstand.  Picking up his book, he tried to lose himself in it, but it was pointless.  After he'd read the same sentence three times and still had no real idea what it meant, Wesley set the book aside.

Sleep was not a possibility.  Dark though it was outside, it was still early, and Wesley was wide awake.  He needed something to stop his mind from circling back around, but he couldn't concentrate.

"This is ridiculous!"  Wesley stood, moving through his flat restlessly.  His muscles ached from the exercise, but his mind wouldn't let him settle.  He kept picturing Rupert with his head thrown back, his eyes closed and that lovely groan issuing from slightly parted lips.  He knew he had to stop thinking about it.  Rupert was only helping him out of a sense of responsibility, Wes was sure of it.  Beyond that, they had nothing.  They'd never been friends.  Rupert had hated him years ago and, though he clearly didn't now, Wesley had certainly not given him anything in particular to like over the last months.

He could still remember the things he'd said to Rupert at first, when he'd been using Rupert's presence at his sessions to spur him toward success.  He hadn't been kind; of course, Rupert didn't seem to have held that against him.  In fact, Rupert hadn't seemed to take any of it personally.

Since then Wesley and he had seen one another almost daily, but . . . Wesley still felt a distance from Rupert.  They talked mostly about the Council.  Rupert didn't talk about himself, and Wesley . . . Wesley didn't either, which was probably for the better, considering.  They'd shared a few meals, but mostly they'd worked together to get Wesley healthy, and yet . . . Sometimes Rupert would lay a hand on his shoulder and Wesley would be certain there was more to it than reassurance.  Now and then he'd look up to find Rupert watching him, and Wesley didn't think it was solely to judge his progress.  And once, only once, when Wesley had first been allowed to drink alcohol again, Rupert had shown up at his door with a bottle of brandy and . . . It hadn't been anything.  It didn't _mean_ anything.  They'd shared a drink, talked about the others--though not in any great depth--and Rupert had left.  That was all.

So why couldn't he stop _thinking_?  Why couldn't he stop wishing Rupert had stayed longer that one time, stop hoping Rupert would show up again?  Why couldn't he stop feeling that little tug in his gut every time the man _smiled_.

"Because you're a pathetic git, desperate for contact," Wesley grumbled at himself and then shook his head.  He couldn't go on like this.  And that did it.  Wesley finally knew how he could stop himself from thinking about this.  He picked up the phone.

It rang five times before Spike finally answered.  He sounded sleepy, and Wesley groaned inside.  The rain had made it look later than it was and now he was going to have to deal with a cranky Spike.  Despite his new state of being, Spike kept vampire hours most of the time.  Given that he stayed out most of the night hunting with the Slayers, Wesley could understand.

"Spike?  It's Wesley."

"Oh?  Hey, Percy, what's wrong?"  Wesley heard the flick of a lighter in the background.

"Nothing's wrong.  Do you want to get a drink?  There's a pub a few blocks from my flat."  Wesley couldn't help but feel like an idiot just asking that question.  As if it somehow revealed the state he was in, made it obvious to the world at large.

"You're asking me to get a drink with you, but nothing's wrong?"  Spike sounded rather surprised by that.  Wesley didn't blame him as they'd not spoken much since Wesley's . . . return.  Even earlier that very day, Wesley had been annoyed by that fact, blaming Spike for avoiding him.  In truth, he could admit now that he'd been avoiding Spike, too.  It was difficult, given all that had changed.

"Well, I'm heartily sick of sitting in my flat and staring at the walls.  Does that count?"

There was an amused sound from the other end of the line.  "Okay.  Sure.  You want to meet there, or should I come get you?"

"We can meet there.  Have . . . have you heard from Angel?"

There was silence for a moment, then an almost inaudible sigh.  "Yeah.  He's still in LA.  Keeps saying he'll come visit, but . . . you know.  Still won't let me come over.  He's got a whole new gang now."  The last was said in such a sad tone that Wesley was struck speechless.  He knew, of course.  He'd talked to Angel a few times over the last months, but Angel had been distant and the few times others had answer Angel's phone . . . they'd sounded so business-like.  Nothing like it had been, nothing like . . . a pang of loss washed over Wesley and he shut his eyes against it.

"Yes.  So I've heard."  Wesley thought his tone might have actually been an echo of Spike's.

Silence again, but not awkward.  Rather it was filled with shared moments, a shared history that, though comparatively short, still meant something.  It was a comfort, in some ways.

"So, yeah.  I'll see ya at the pub in about half an hour?"

Wesley agreed and hung up, taking a deep breath.  He'd kept to himself, for the most part, for the last months.  People had come to see him, of course.  Buffy and Dawn had visited Rupert a few months back and had made of point of coming to visit him as well.  Willow came every few months, when she was back in London, and Wesley and she had gotten along well.  For the most part, however, Wesley had spent his time with Rupert or alone.

Perhaps that was the problem.  Maybe, if he got out more, put more effort into socializing with those around him, maybe he could stop wanting.

\-----

Spike was already there when Wesley arrived.  After getting a pint of his own, Wesley slid into the booth across from him.  It was still odd to see Spike as he was now.  He'd stopped bleaching his hair, and it was a darker blonde, a little longer.  He wore glasses, as well, since his eyes had apparently reverted to the condition they'd been in when he was alive--well, alive the last time.

"So what's this about?" Spike asked, studying Wesley.  He took a slow pull of his drink and set it back on the table before Wesley answered.

"Why does it have to be 'about' anything?  I realize it's been a while for you, but we were . . ." Wesley hesitated to use the word 'friends', "comrades in arms.  Maybe I'm nostalgic."

Spike nodded, then met Wesley's eyes and snorted.  "All right.  So you're nostalgic and I'm a connection to the past.  I don't want to talk about LA, mate."

"I don't particularly care," Wesley said with small smile.  "I just wanted out of my flat, and I hate drinking alone.  It is good to see you, though.  Strange, but good."

Spike raised an eyebrow at that.  "Was surprised you called.  I mean, if you just wanted out, why didn't you call Rupert?  Or Andrew, or, fuck, anyone.  Why me?"

"The day I call Andrew to come have a drink with me will be the day I know I am truly desperate," Wesley replied, neatly sidestepping the first question.  Off of Spike's amused look, Wesley added, "He would have been next, if you hadn't been in.  I don’t know any of the others here at the moment."

Spike laughed and seemed to relax.  Wesley wasn't entirely sure why Spike should be suspicious of his motives, but it was clear that he had been.  Deciding to leave that topic for later exploration, Wesley found he was rather out of things to say.  The silence that followed was awkward, and Wesley sought frantically for something to say.

"I never imagined you ending up a Watcher," he finally managed, looking at Spike with a bemused smile.  "I never imagined myself as a Watcher again; how could I have possibly pictured this?"

"Yeah, well," Spike said, looking down at his pint and running a finger along the rim of it.  "I don't think this is something anyone could have seen comin'.  Well, not in a non-prophecy kinda way."

"How are you adjusting?  I know," Wesley held up a hand to keep Spike from talking.  "It's been two years now, but I missed it, so humor me."

It took more than a little prodding, but Spike filled the next half hour telling Wesley about the last two years.  The conversation did provide some distraction for Wesley.  He only thought of Rupert every single time the man's name cropped up.  Given that Spike had spent the last two years working for Rupert, that happened more often then Wesley would have thought it would.

It seemed Spike could hardly go more than few sentences without some mention of Rupert.  Though, Wesley freely admitted to himself that his perceptions on the matter might be skewed.  It wouldn't be the first time; it wouldn't even be the first time concerning Rupert.  Wesley didn't realize he'd sighed aloud until it struck him that Spike had stopped talking.

Wesley looked up to find Spike studying him again.  "All right, that's it.  I was going to ignore the fact that you were staring off into space and just keep right on having a conversation with myself, but what's with the soulful sighs.  Are you challenging the pounce for King of the Brood?"

Wesley searched for words for moment, blushing slightly.  All he could come up with, however, was, "I'm sorry.  My mind wandered."

"Wandered?"  Spike laughed again, giving Wesley a disbelieving look.  "Mate, your mind's barely even ducked its head in to say hello.  What's going on?"

"Spike, really, there's nothing going--"

"Don't try to feed me that.  I'm human now, still doesn't make me stupid."  Spike drained the rest of his pint and set it down hard enough that it made a small 'thudding' sound.  "You've avoided me for months, avoided everything for months, and all of a sudden you phone me up to go out for a drink?  Bollocks.  Spill it, Percy."

Wesley stared at Spike, eyes wide and fingers fidgeting against his pint.  "I haven't avoided you, I--"

"Again, bollocks.  Every time any of us came over to see you, you were hardly there.  You barely spoke to anyone, you never called me and I'd be gobsmacked if you called anyone else, 'cept maybe Rupert.  You've barely been out of that damn flat in weeks and even at work you hide in your office."  Spike shook his head, giving Wesley a glare.  "So why have you suddenly got a bug up your butt to get out?"

"I don't hide--" Spike cut Wesley off again, this time with a rude snort.

"Don't give me that.  You've been hiding ever since you woke up.  I can understand you needed time to adjust, losing two years and all, and I know you weren't exactly able to do much, but you didn't even bother to try."

Wesley blinked, trying to come up with words and finding that there weren't any.  He had been hiding.  His expression must have given something of his thoughts away, because Spike relaxed once again.

"Look, I get it.  Okay?  I went from vampire to human.  For the first two months I was . . . I wasn't myself."  Spike looked down at his pint as he spoke and Wesley could see that the words weren't coming easy to him.  "It's terrifyin'.  One minute I can get stabbed through the chest and, unless it's with wood, I'm gonna still be waking up tomorrow.  The next minute . . . there's so much that can hurt you out here.  Fuck, Wesley, humans are so damn fragile.  I know, I spent _years_ . . ." Spike trailed off, taking a breath before he looked up and met Wesley's gaze.  "I figure you're thinking the same."

Wesley was silent for a long moment, though he could feel Spike's eyes boring into him, as if willing him to speak.  Finally, without looking up, Wesley whispered.  "I'm not afraid of dying, Spike.  I'm afraid I'm already dead."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wesley finally starts to make some headway.

When Wesley did finally look up, it was to see Spike staring at him as if he'd just announced he was retiring to Australia to become a kangaroo.  Wesley snorted at that look, motioning to Spike's empty pint.  "I'm going to get another.  Shall I?"

Spike blinked, looked down at his own pint and then back to Wesley.  "Yeah.  You do that.  I'm gettin' the feeling we're both gonna need it."

Wesley snorted again and went to get them both another.  Briefly, he considered leaving.  He really had said too much.  He didn't want to discuss this, at all, but he certainly hadn't meant for it to spill out like that.

 _Melodramatic_ , he told himself, shaking his head at himself.  He'd just felt so off balance since waking up.  He returned to the table to find Spike sitting with a thoughtful look on his face.  A truly thoughtful, contemplative expression and it was just one more reminder that this was a different Spike than the one he'd known.

"Thanks, mate," Spike said when Wesley put the pint down in front of him.  Wesley took his seat, opening his mouth to tell Spike to forget what he'd said, only to have Spike cut him off, yet again.  "Now, you wanna explain what you said?"

"No," Wesley denied, forcing something like a smile, weak as it was.  "I'd rather we just pretend it never happened, like real men.  Possibly play darts.  I really could go for tossing sharp objects at something."

Spike said nothing.  He simply raised an eyebrow, his eyes never leaving Wesley's.  Wesley had to look away first, a fact that sparked annoyance deep inside him.  Wesley took a long drink, set his glass down carefully, and then met Spike's stare again.

"Darts are out, then?"

"Wes, you aren't just throwing that out and expecting me to ignore it.  You have more brains than that.  At least, I thought you did."  Spike leaned back against his booth.

"What do you expect, Spike?" Wesley growled, suddenly angry, possibly more than the situation warranted.  "That I'll pour out my soul, and we'll have a nice heart to heart?  It isn't going to happen.  I don't want to talk, I want to drink, to drink and to stop thinking about things I can't--" Wesley caught his mouth before anything truly incriminating slipped out.  He glared at Spike, took another long pull from his pint, and then smacked it down on the table.

"Prickly bastard," Spike muttered, sighing.  "Fine.  You came here to drink.  Don't need me to do that."  Spike stood and reached for his coat.  Wesley opened his mouth, ready to ask Spike to stay, but he couldn't force the words past his lips, couldn't make himself look any more of a git than he already did.

Spike gave him one final look, as if he were giving Wesley one last chance, but Wesley looked down, stared into his drink, and remained stubbornly silent.

Spike muttered something Wesley couldn't make out, made a disgusted noise and stormed out, leaving Wesley alone.  Wes couldn't help but think he should be used to the condition by now.

\-----

The phone was ringing when Rupert opened the door.  He rushed to pick it up, wishing he'd at least had the time to hang up his wet coat.  "Hello?"

"Rupert?  Good."  Spike's voice was brusque, and there was something in it that spoke of urgency.  "That man's losing his mind.  You should get over there before he drinks himself to death."

"I'm sorry, what?"  Rupert held the phone in the crook of his shoulder, pulling one arm free from his coat.  "What are you talking about, Spike?"

"Wesley."  There was a sigh on the other end of the line, weary.  Rupert's stomach clenched tight.  He began struggling to get his arm back into his coat sleeve as Spike continued.  "He's . . . I don't know.  He said he was worried he was already dead, but he clammed up and he's not going to talk to me.  I figured, well, you've been around him way more than I have, and maybe he'd talk to you."

"He's at home?" Rupert asked.  He could have pressed for more details, but just then the only thing he really wanted was to see Wesley.  While he hoped Spike was exaggerating, he knew Spike wouldn't have called him unless he was actually worried.

"No.  Pub a couple blocks from his flat.  He called and said he wanted to get a drink.  Rupert, find out what's wrong with him.  He's . . . there aren't many of us left."  Rupert knew Spike was referring to those who had been in LA.

"Of course.  Give me the address."  Rupert wrote it down and then hung up after a quick goodbye.  Grabbing his keys, he turned and went right back out into the rain.

His mind, restless with concern, ticked over the possibilities.  Most of the magic he and Willow had worked on Wesley was untested, but Rupert hadn't seen any way it could be harmful.  He still didn't.  It was a possibility, but remote.  More likely Wesley was having trouble adjusting, which was understandable, but just as dangerous.

Over the last few years, Rupert had seen far too many of his colleagues and his Slayers fall into that trap.  The Slayers, newly powerful and often young, didn't always handle things well.  The Watchers, newly trained and thrust into fieldwork, quickly learned that things weren't as shiny and bright as they had anticipated.  And Wesley had even more to adjust to.  He'd been effectively gone for a long time, and things had changed so much since then.

Rupert parked and headed toward the pub where Spike had left Wesley.  He wasn't entirely certain what he'd say to Wes when he saw him.  Wesley was clearly reluctant to talk and Rupert didn't know if pushing him to do so was the best option.  He couldn't let Wesley drink alone, though.  Wesley wasn't in any condition to defend himself, yet.  He was getting stronger every day, but his balance remained an issue and to add alcohol on top of that?  Rupert had a mental image of Wesley staggering home, pissed, and running into something nasty--pushing that thought from his mind, Rupert walked into the pub.  He spotted Wesley at once and made his way over to the booth that Wesley occupied.

One look told him he was too late, if his mission was to keep Wesley sober.  Wesley looked up at him and blinked owlishly.  "Damn it," he said, voice gravelly in that way that pulled at things low in Rupert's body.  "Can't you ever just leave me alone?  How many of there are you?"

Then Wesley passed out, face down onto the table with a slight 'thumping' sound.  Wincing in sympathy, Rupert set about waking Wesley up enough to get him home.

Wesley came around enough that Rupert could get water into him, but it took a while before he was sober enough for Rupert to get him out to the car.  He had to hold one of Wesley's arms around his shoulder, supporting most of Wesley's weight.

"Where are we going?" Wesley asked as Rupert helped him into the car and got the seatbelt buckled over his chest.  Wesley sat, passive, watching the process with a strange look on his face, almost wistful.

"I'm taking you home." Rupert answered, giving Wesley an amused smile.  It was hard not to be amused when Wesley's hair was mussed and his eyes were bright with intoxication.  Funnily enough, he looked happier than Rupert had seen him . . . ever, actually.

"Really?  You're taking me home?"  Unsure why that fact seemed to make Wesley smile, Rupert nodded.

"Yes," he said, "Watch your leg."  Wesley pulled his leg inside the car so that Rupert could close the door.

Sliding in behind the wheel, Rupert looked over to find Wesley sporting a grin, his head tilted back against the seat.  Shaking his head and unable to keep from smiling again, despite his worry, Rupert began the short drive to Wesley's flat.  When they arrived, Wesley looked disappointed for some reason.

"This is my flat," he said softly, casting confused eyes over to Rupert.  The grin was gone, and Wesley's forehead was wrinkled.  "I thought you said you were taking me home."

Rupert's worry surfaced again, wiping the smile from his face.  Wesley sounded so sad and confused.  "And where is home, Wes?"

Wesley's forehead wrinkled further as he thought about this.  Rupert turned off the engine and undid his seatbelt, turning to look at Wesley as he waited for the man's answer.

"Well," Wesley said, smiling again.  It was a different smile, not the grin of a few moments ago, but somehow shy, an expression Rupert had never seen on Wesley's face.  "I suppose that if _you_ don't know, it's best we came here instead.  Getting lost wouldn't help."

"True," Rupert agreed, letting the topic go.  Now probably wasn't the moment, after all.  He went around to help Wesley out and was glad to see that Wesley supported more of his own weight as they made their way to his door.

Wesley stood staring at the door for a moment and then finally pulled the keys from his pocket.  His hands were surprisingly steady, given that he was leaning against the doorway.  He unlocked the door and almost fell, as he'd been leaning against it when he opened it.  Rupert reached out and caught him, though they both nearly went sprawling in the process.

With little enough cooperation from Wesley, who seemed too concerned with apologizing to support himself, Rupert managed to get him to the couch.  He'd been to Wesley's place often enough to know where everything was, which was a blessing as Wesley was in no shape to tell him.  Rupert knelt down in front of Wesley, who was slouching low, his legs splayed and his head tipped back.  "I'm going to get you some tea, Wes, all right?"

"I don't know what happened.  One moment I was upright and the next . . . What?  Oh.  Yes, tea.  Tea is nice."  Wesley looked up then, blinked and seemed to realize that Rupert was kneeling on the floor.  Straightening up, he cleared his throat, making a visible effort to pull himself together.  "Right.  Yes, that would be lovely."

Rupert felt his forehead furrow as a flush crept up Wesley's neck, but went to put on the kettle.

Wesley was still sitting straight when Rupert came back with the tea, and that had to be a good sign.  His eyes seemed a little clearer as well, when he opened them.  "Right.  Tea."  Wesley smiled, the expression a bit embarrassed, which was Rupert's main clue that Wesley was in fact coming a little back to himself.

"I've made it quite strong," Rupert said, setting the tray on the coffee table and taking a seat in the chair nearest the sofa.

"That's, uh, probably for the best."  It seemed the good mood was wearing off right along with the alcohol, and Rupert was sad to see it go.  There had been a few moments, over the last months, when he'd seen Wesley actually smile, but it was a rarity.  Pushing away those thoughts--they led to others Rupert couldn't allow himself at the moment--he handed Wesley his tea and watched carefully to make certain Wesley was steady enough not to spill.

They drank in awkward silence, and the air in the room seemed heavy, too full, though Rupert couldn't imagine why.  He finally decided it was only him, that his mind was too full of things he couldn’t or wouldn't say.

"Thank you."  Wesley broke the silence first, though he didn't look up from his tea.

"For?"  Rupert shook his head, watching as Wesley pulled in a heavy breath.

"For bringing me home.  I, uh, I was in no fit state.  I'm . . . sorry to put you to the trouble."  Wesley looked up then, his forehead furrowing and a look of revelation on his face.  "How did you find me?"

"Spike," Rupert answered, setting down his empty cup.  "He called after he left you at the bar."

"Oh, bloody lovely," Wesley muttered so quietly Rupert almost didn't hear it.  "I suppose he told you I was acting a git?"

"Well, he didn't put it that way.  I don't think he saw it that way, but he told me what you said, yes."

A heavy sigh came from Wesley, who then put his own cup down and reached up to scrub his hands across his face, into his hair, rumpling it further.  Rupert had to pull his eyes away from the messy spikes it had formed into, meeting Wesley's eyes as he did.  Wesley looked tired, worn, and Rupert wanted to see him smiling again.

Silence descended and Rupert flailed for a way to fill it.  He didn't want to push Wesley into opening up; he was sure that would only lead to resentment.  However, he couldn't just leave it.  He wanted Wesley to know that he was there, that he could help.  He just wasn't sure how to say so without sounding like a moron.

"Wesley--"

"Rupert--"

They both began at the same time and a nervous giggle escaped Rupert before he could stop it.  Wesley looked surprised at the sound, blinking at Rupert.  Then a smile lit his face and all thoughts of laughing flew out of Rupert's mind.  Yes, that was what he'd wanted to see, that smile that seemed to light up even weary blue eyes.  The humor passed all too soon, however and Rupert gestured for Wesley to continue, hoping whatever Wes had to say would give him an opening.

"I'm all right," Wesley finally said, though he couldn't seem to look up from his hands as he said it.  "I was just . . . I'm fine."

Rupert sighed, leaning back in the chair and studying Wesley's slumped shoulders.  So tired.  "I hope you'll forgive me for saying that I don't believe you."

Wesley looked up, snorting and then turning his eyes to the wall behind Rupert.  "I'm as well as I can be.  Just, uh, need to get out more, I think."

"That wouldn't be a bad start," Rupert conceded with a nod.  "I don't think that's all this is, though."

"And what makes you an expert?"  Wesley's voice was suddenly harder, angry.  He met Rupert's gaze head on.  "Spike seemed to think that becoming human gave him some insight.  So, what is it that you're comparing this to?"  The change was startling, but Rupert didn't flinch or back away.  He held Wesley's eyes and shrugged.

"Nothing.  There is nothing I could compare it to.  I'm not claiming to know how you feel, just that . . . what you said seems a bit extreme for someone who just needs to get out more."

Wesley snorted again, still looking Rupert straight in the eye.  He sat straight now, tense.  "I've _lost_ two years of my life.  I've lain in a bed, a vegetable, for two years and everyone . . . everything . . . it all changed around me!  Everyone I knew--" His voice broke off in what Rupert could only call a sob, though the name did the sound no justice.  It was choked and angry and hard.  "All I feel is--is pain, in one form or another.  The only time I feel anything else is--" Wesley seemed to force himself to stop then, swallowing as if he would pull back words that were on the tip of his tongue.

Rupert raised an eyebrow when Wesley looked away, his anger seeming to drain away as he slumped, defeated.  "Wesley . . . I want to help."

"I know," Wesley said softly, sighing.  "I'm sorry.  I'm suddenly very tired.  Uh, thank you for, um, seeing me home."

Rupert recognized a dismissal when he heard one, but the thought of leaving Wesley like this . . . "Wesley, just . . . let me say this and then I'll go and leave you be."  Rupert waited for Wesley's nod, though Wesley still would not look at him.  "I want to help, if there's any way I can.  I--I'd like to think we've become friends, over the last months."

Wesley made a sound midway between a snort and a laugh.  Rupert tried not to take it as a denial of what he'd said, but still his stomach clenched tight at the thought that Wesley didn't consider him a friend.  Standing, Rupert laid a hand briefly on Wesley's shoulder, hoping to convey the comfort he couldn't put into words.  "That's it.  I want to help."  Rupert stood there for a moment before moving to pick up his coat from the chair over which he'd draped it.

"Thank you," Wesley said, softly.  Rupert wasn't certain if Wesley was thanking him for what he'd said or for leaving, but it seemed that, in the end, it didn't matter.  Wesley remained still and silent, and Rupert left, looking back over his shoulder before closing the door behind him.

\-----

Wesley listened to the door click shut and then closed his eyes, trying hard not to give into the roil of emotion inside.  He called himself several kinds of fool, but in the end it changed nothing.  He'd wanted, desperately, to ask Rupert to stay, to lean his cheek against the hand that had rested on his shoulder, to ask for what he really wanted.

Shaking his head at himself, Wesley opened his eyes, blinked away moisture, and stood.  He didn't wobble, but his balance--already off--was not good enough for him to go far.  He did make it to the light switch, though, there and back without falling, and he felt it was something of an accomplishment.  He sat again, removing his shoes and trying not to get dizzy.  He didn't bother with his clothing.  It wasn't going to keep him awake, and just then all he wanted was the peace sleep brought with it.

He lay on his couch, too tired and dizzy to make it to his bed, and tried to rest.  His mind kept throwing things at him, however.  Angel's distance, Spike's earlier words, the changes in the world, Rupert's . . . Well, Rupert.

Wesley was convinced he could overcome it all, that he could re-establish his friendship with Angel, that he could manage to have a drink with Spike, that he could . . . if only he could stop the fear.  It was always with him, but it wasn't what Spike thought.  Wesley wasn't afraid of dying; it had just taken him so long to get what he'd had.  He'd had to try so hard, to keep going despite all the mistakes he'd made . . . and it was gone, now.  Gone because the world had kept moving and he had stayed still.  Without his effort, it had all faded away.  The thought of trying that hard again--of working that hard to have something worth having and then losing it all again--it was terrifying.

Morning came as something of a surprise.  One moment he'd been lying there wondering what would have happened if he'd stopped being so frightened and just . . . _done_ something, _said_ something.  The next moment light was flooding into his eyes, and his mouth felt like moss had begun to grow on his tongue.

Wesley had to drink a gallon of water to fend off his hangover, but he was determined.  More than anything, he wanted to be out of his flat, wanted to stop thinking.  The drinking had helped with that last night, and Wesley was desperately hoping that work would be interesting enough to help today.

He took a taxi to the office.  His flat wasn't far, but he wasn't in any mood to walk, no matter how good for him it might be.  Steeling himself against the possibility of seeing Rupert again, Wesley made his way inside and to his office, glad to close the door behind him.  He shut the blinds, using only his desk lamp as he began his work, a translation of something that turned out to be useless to them, demon love poetry.  Since that quite firmly put him off his lunch, Wesley managed to stay hidden in his office well into the afternoon.

He knew he couldn't do it forever, though.  Halfway through the next translation, Wesley shook his head, realizing he'd been staring at the wall for he couldn't tell how long now.  His mind had drifted.  He was supposed to meet Rupert in the gym in an hour.

The urge to skip his session was nearly overwhelming.  He'd come so close to blurting things out last night, and Wesley wasn't sure he was strong enough to keep silent again.  Still, the exercise, the exertion, it was the one thing that stopped his rambling mind.  Better than drinking, better than work, it never failed to silence his thoughts, and Wesley needed it desperately.

In the end, there wasn't any choice.  Wesley needed the exercise, but it was more than that.  As he changed into his sweats, Wesley let himself acknowledge that--as embarrassing as he knew it would be--he wanted to see Rupert.  Despite knowing he was being a fool, Wesley couldn't seem to stop himself.

It was Sunnydale all over again.

Sighing, Wesley walked out into the gym proper and stopped short.  The equipment had been pushed to the edges of the room; all except the weight bench, which took far too long to take apart, and was too heavy to be moved whole.  There was a thick blue workout mat spread along the floor, and Rupert was sitting on the bench, two quarterstaffs leaning against it beside him.

He looked up when Wesley entered, but his smile, usually so welcoming, was a weak thing today.  _Oh, God.  Did he guess what . . ._ Wesley took a slow breath, returning the smile, though he was certain his was more embarrassed than was usual.

"I thought we could work on your balance, today.  Since that's what you seem to be having the most trouble with."  All business.  It was actually a comfort to Wesley.  Rupert wasn't going to press him about last night, wasn't going to bring personal issues into their sessions.  Relief flooded through him, and something inside Wesley relaxed.

"All right.  As long as you don't expect me to use those on a balance beam, I think I can manage."

Rupert snorted at that, standing and holding one of the staffs out to Wesley.  "No, no balance beam, yet.  I think flat ground is a good enough start."  Rupert nodded toward the mat and went to take up his position.  Wesley followed, trying to clear his mind as he did.

"Flat ground and no sharp objects," he commented, nodding to the swords hanging along the walls.

"Once you've got your balance back," Rupert said, crouching with the staff held in both of his hands, "then you can challenge me to a rematch."

Wesley laughed, feeling his nervousness evaporate.  They began to circle one another and a large part of Wesley's mind was taken up by watching.  Watching Rupert for any sign of how he would move, when he would move.

"I think you'll find my fencing has improved quite a bit," Wesley said, speaking from that small part of his brain not already occupied.  "Or, at least, it had.  Who's to say, now?"  Rupert chose that moment to strike, whipping his quarterstaff up, around and then down.  Wesley couldn't respond, but he did manage to get out of the way.

"You'll be fine," Rupert was saying, his voice seeming softer now that Wesley could hear the pumping of his own heart; hear his blood rushing through his ears.  He knew Rupert would have pulled the blow, but there had been no sign of it, and Wesley's body had reacted with a burst of adrenaline.  "Once you've gotten your balance back, I'm sure you'll give me quite a challenge."

There was something to the words, or more to Rupert's expression.  Rupert looked different today, almost predatory.  Wesley put it down to his own nerves screaming at him to fight or to flee, but he couldn't deny that it did things to him, thinking of Rupert looking at him that way.

He shivered, and then pushed the thought away, attempting a strike of his own.  He was too slow.  Rupert slid easily out of the way, not even bothering to parry.  Wesley knew he was taking too long because he had to work so hard at balancing, at coping with the momentum.

Wesley struck again, thinking to take Rupert by surprise with another attack so quickly.  Rupert slipped behind him, though, and Wesley felt Rupert's quarterstaff tap his back lightly.  Then Rupert was right behind him, helping Wesley stay on his feet by slipping an arm around his stomach.  Wesley let out an explosive breath, his body aware of every inch of Rupert's that pressed again him.

"Breathe, Wes."  The words were just a whisper, but Wesley felt Rupert's breath on his neck.  Then Rupert was gone, once again in front of Wesley, crouching, ready for another bout.

Wesley swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry.  He tried to focus on Rupert's movements, but his mind kept interfering, reminding him of the way Rupert's body had slid along his own.  Rupert got in two more strikes, but Wesley threw himself out of the way both times.  Not graceful, but effective.  He was still 'alive' after all.

Wesley finally got in another strike, even managed it well enough that Rupert had to block with his own staff.  Wesley threw himself into it, rode the adrenaline and pushed away all thought.  Neither of them spoke, neither of them had the excess mental capacity.

It was glorious.  Wesley's only thoughts weren't really thoughts at all.  For all it had been over two years since he'd picked up a quarterstaff, he'd had the principles drilled into him early on.  It wasn’t something one forgot, even if one did get rusty.  He quickly adjusted to the weapon, let himself think only of Rupert's shift in weight this way or that.  They circled one another, faces set and hard.  Rupert was better, but Wesley knew that if he kept trying, kept working at it, he would be back to himself one day.  He could feel it in the stretch of each muscle, each tendon, all of his body remembering the movements, even if the strain was more than it would once have been.

Wesley began breathing hard before Rupert did, tiring out more quickly these days.  He kept pushing, and Rupert let him, led him.  Whenever Wesley began to slow, Rupert would be there, striking at him, forcing him to keep going.  Sweat dripped along his skin, the taste of it on his tongue, the sting of it in his eyes.  Wesley blinked it away, dodging another of Rupert's blows.

It was then that Wesley noticed it.  Whether it was manufactured or an actual chink in Rupert's defenses, Wesley couldn't tell at first, but he did know how to find out.  He felt himself smile, and it was feral despite the way his limbs were beginning to feel heavy and tired.  Rupert's answering grin was the same and predatory in that way that made Wesley's cock harden.  There was a joy in this, something primal and honest.  It filled him up from his toes, drove everything else away.  The fear was gone, the thoughts gone, everything but the way his body moved and the way Rupert's moved in response.

Rupert came at him again, and Wesley dodged, checked to be certain of what he'd seen.  Satisfied, Wesley pretended tiredness, pretended a moment of inattention, knowing Rupert couldn't help but take advantage.  Rupert struck, and Wesley didn't dodge.

Instead, he brought his quarterstaff up and kicked out.  He'd meant to trip Rupert, but his kick had been clumsy.  Their legs tangled, and Wesley couldn't regain his balance.  Rupert tried to steady them both, but they fell anyway, slamming back onto the mat with a thud that knocked away what little breath Wesley had left.

Panting, gasping, Wesley found himself staring up into Rupert's face.  Rupert was winded as well, but it was the look on his face that caught Wesley's attention, caught it and held it fast.  Rupert was staring at him hard, supporting his weight on his elbows, his body pressed along Wesley's all the way down.  Wesley swallowed hard and licked his lips.  He saw Rupert's eyes dilate, saw . . . he couldn't be seeing what he thought he was seeing.

Rupert's eyes flicked down to Wesley's mouth, the look so quick that Wesley could pretend he didn't see it at all, if he wanted to.  The fear welled up, telling Wesley not to project, not to see just what he wanted.  Rupert was his only friend now.  If he ruined that, he'd have nothing again.

The problem was that he'd given over control to his body.  For the last hour he'd moved on instinct, his mind having only slight control, and Wesley was sure his mind had no part of what he did then.  He surged upward, pressing his lips to Rupert's so hard he felt his teeth against the inside of them.  Rupert's lips opened beneath his immediately and there was still no thought in Wesley.

His hands moved to touch Rupert, to rub along his back and sides, to slip under Rupert's shirt and touch, greedily, all the skin he could reach.  Rupert's mouth moved over his, his tongue sliding along Wesley's lips and coaxing them open.  Wesley moaned into the kiss, his hips pushing up and finding an answering hardness.  It was Rupert who moaned then, pushing his hands into Wesley's hair and thrusting his tongue against Wesley's.

Wesley's muscles were like rubber, but he couldn't stop himself.  Even if he'd wanted to, it was beyond him.  He could only move, respond to Rupert's moves, could only feel the slide of Rupert's tongue as it traced a line to his throat.  Rupert nipped at the edge of the scar there, licking along it and pulling a gasp from Wesley.  Wesley's hips moved in a restless rhythm.  He wanted more contact, needed more.

"Please," he managed, the word scratching his dry throat.  "Need."  He couldn't manage anything more, but it didn't seem necessary.  Rupert groaned against his neck and then pulled back, straddling Wesley's hips, pressing their cocks together.  The contact pulled a whimper from Wesley, who couldn't stop touching any part of Rupert that was close enough.

Rupert pulled his own shirt off in one quick movement, tossing it aside.  He was panting, his eyes focused on Wesley's mouth.  Wesley let his fingers slide over Rupert's stomach, the feeling of the crisp hair there a revelation.  Then Rupert's hands were on him again, tugging Wesley's shirt up, and Wesley had to stop touching long enough for Rupert to get it over his head and off his arms, but no longer.  Rupert thrust his hips forward and Wesley threw his head back, his hands sliding to Rupert's hips and then under the waistband of Rupert's sweats.

Rupert groaned, and they were kissing again.  Wesley's muscles complained as he sat up to get more, but he couldn't care when Rupert's lips were hard against his and he could feel the scrape of almost invisible stubble along his cheeks.  It drove him on.  They moved against one another like wild things, and Wesley could never get enough of it, never enough skin, never enough touch.  He whimpered again as Rupert bit at his throat, as Rupert's hands tugged at his hair.  He thrust up against Rupert's body, his cock so hard it ached.

"Up on your knees," Rupert said, sounding hoarse, as he moved off of Wesley.  Wesley wasted no time in kneeling.  He reached out for Rupert, and Rupert was there at once.  Wesley dove forward, lapping at Rupert's neck and then nipping his way down Rupert's chest, tasting him.  Rupert's skin was salty with sweat, but underneath it, barely discernable, was another taste, something Wesley couldn't describe as anything but 'Rupert'.  Wesley licked over Rupert's nipple, and Rupert's hands squeezed Wesley's shoulder blades.  Rupert groaned, and Wesley felt the sound, felt Rupert's rapid breathing in the movement of his chest.

Then Rupert was pulling him up, and they were pressed together.  Rupert's mouth was on his, the kiss hard and urgent and forcing Wesley to give back as good as he got.  There was no hesitation, no second guessing, no thought at all.  Wesley slipped his hands down, pushing them to Rupert's thighs and Rupert did the same with his.  That first contact, bare cock against bare cock, was almost too much.  Wesley buried his face in Rupert's neck, gasping in breath after breath as Rupert ground against him, Wesley pushing back just as hard.

"Please."  It was almost a sob against Rupert's skin.  He needed so much, though it was beyond him to say exactly what.  He needed release, but a simple orgasm, no matter how mind-blowing, wasn't enough.  Wesley couldn't define it, couldn't stop long enough to think.

Rupert's fingers dug into his hips pulling them tight together.  "Want me inside you?" Rupert's voice in his ear was dark and deep and Wesley wanted to wrap it around himself, get lost in it.

"Yes," Wesley hissed out, rubbing his cheek against Rupert's and reveling in the burn of stubble against stubble.

"Weight bench," Rupert said, nodding toward the equipment with a quick jerk of his head.  Wesley moaned, nodding against Rupert's shoulder and then scrambling to comply.

Rupert's gym bag was on the floor next to the bench and Wesley watched, barely restraining his need to touch, as Rupert dug through it until he found lotion.  "Bend over it."  Rupert looked at him as he said it, his gaze hot.  Wesley swallowed and laid his chest along the bench, his knees on the floor.  Rupert was behind him a moment later, those rough hands sliding along his back.  Wesley pushed against them, arching his back and letting his forehead drop to the bench.

Slick fingers slid along his crease, and Wesley whimpered, his hips jerking against air, seeking friction for his cock.  Rupert's fingers slipped lower, circling Wesley's entrance slowly.  Wesley moaned and bucked against them, and Rupert seemed to get the point.  One finger slid inside and Wesley pressed back hard, wanting the burn.  Rupert slicked him, but didn't prepare him too much; Wesley wouldn't let him.  He kept clenching around the fingers inside him, kept pushing back.

"Please.  Please.  Please." His hoarse voice was muffled as Wesley pressed his mouth against his arm, arching back, needing more.

Rupert groaned, withdrawing his fingers.  For too long, neither of Rupert's hands was on him.  Before Wesley could draw in enough breath to complain, he felt the blunt head of Rupert's cock against his entrance.

"God, yes," he groaned, and then Rupert was pushing into him, hard and fast and so perfect that Wesley thought he could live in that moment forever.  Small, needy sounds were coming from his lips, and Wesley pushed back, taking Rupert fully inside.  Wesley closed his eyes, feeling Rupert's forehead against his shoulder as Rupert began to thrust.

"God, Wesley, so good," Rupert was panting, that dark voice in his ear again.  Wesley moaned, reaching his hands out and grasping the weight bar, using it as leverage to push back harder.  "So--God--so tight."

Wesley knew there were more words, knew Rupert was still talking to him, but the words themselves were lost in the haze of feeling.  Rupert's hands, Rupert's body, Rupert's voice, Rupert's cock pressing into him at that perfect angle.

"Close," Wesley gasped out.  "Just need--" Rupert's hand moved from his hip and closed around his cock, "--Oh, God, Rupert!"

Wesley's entire body tensed, arched with the force of his orgasm.  For a heartbeat, he couldn't breathe, couldn't move, could only feel the rush of it, surging through him and pouring out.  Then Wesley was gasping, whimpering, his body alive, every feeling enhanced as something new filled the air.  Rupert's magic was heavy around him, warm and soft and deep.  Wesley closed his eyes, clench hard around Rupert's cock.  Rupert made a sound, deep in his throat, and then Wesley felt him come.  The sense of Rupert's magic deepened, engulfing Wesley and carrying him away.

His next, solid, thought was that Rupert was draped over him.  Wesley couldn't remember when that had happened, but he let himself enjoy the solid press of Rupert's weight.  His hands had slipped from the weight bar at some point, and Wesley crossed them, resting his head on them and basking in the languid feel of his body.

It was a moment before Wesley realized Rupert was still inside him, pressed tight against him.  Wesley clenched around Rupert's softening shaft and Rupert groaned against his shoulder, sounding even hoarser now.

Rupert made to move off of him, but Wesley pressed back and murmured, "Stay."

A moment later Rupert relaxed against him.  Rupert's arms circled him and Wesley sighed, leaning his head to the side so that it pressed against Rupert's.  And then Rupert whispered in that deliciously dark voice and Wesley felt himself smile at the words.  "As long as you want me here, Wes."


End file.
